Last of the Page Dwellers
by pilas14
Summary: SSHP  Deathly Hollows but not the Epilogue. Harry finds Snape's journal and then things go all wrong. Is Snape really back from the dead? Even when you're supposed to be dead, answers and love can be found in the most unlikely places. Ch2 & Ch3 Up.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Deathly Hollow did happen. Spoilers (sort of). Please respect the snarry or leave!

The halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were filled with a brimming sadness. It threatened to consume Harry as he walked along the corridors, scuffing his feet on the hard, cold stone floor. He froze as a flake of blood caught on his shoe. Instantly, the agonizing retching feeling forced its' way out of his stomach again. Harry coughed and shuddered, one hand on the freezing wall of the castle.

"Harry?" a voice whispered behind him.

He spun away from the way, clutching his wand in a crouching defensive position.

But there was no one. The whisper came again, from above and from behind him and then below, so it seemed like the whisper was coming from everywhere and yet he could not pin down one location. It seemed to come from nowhere.

Frantic, he called out, "Who's there?"

Only the darkness answered. He ran down the hall towards the Gryffindor common room, up one flight of stairs, and two portraits down. The whisper followed him, seeming to echo in his very head.

"Harry. Harry! Harry? Harry…"

The Fat Lady was not in her portrait frame. A dismayed Harry looked around, flitting from one floor to another, as far as his eyes could see. She was in none of the ones he could distinguish.

The voice, the whisper, was getting louder now and it throbbed against Harry's head, making the place where his lightening bolt scar had once resided throb with energy. He placed his hand on it, afraid it might burst, sending his brains spilling across the corridor. The thought made his stomach lurch more.

The pain ended abruptly, sending Harry sprawling across the cold stone, sweating and panting like he'd just run a marathon. The trickle of sweat coming from his brow felt like blood and he put his hand to his forehead to make sure his scar really was gone.

He sighed and pulled himself off the ground, then tripped over something as he rose.

A notebook lay on the floor, covered in dust and Merlin only knew what else. Harry picked it up and got the strange sensation he first got after touching Riddle's diary his second year at Hogwarts. He shuddered. But the book itself seemed harmless enough after a second inspection.

It bore the signature of someone he remembered very well.

_H.P.B._

Though Harry had ended up with a bad impression of the Half-Blood Prince, he could not deny Snape's loyalty during the war and how he had fought to protect his mother without fear of the cost. Snape had saved Harry in every way he could. For that, Harry had pledged to repay him someday, somehow.

He played with the journal in his hands. It was in considerably better shape than the old Potions book he'd found his sixth year, but it was still old in the same sense that all things which were around Snape were old; the kind where new things were still old. The spine was cracked and there were a few pieces flecking from the covering. It smelled like leather but was sharp like fangs: Dragonhide. He remembered reading about it in Care of Magical Creatures.

"What secrets do you hide, Severus Snape?"

He opened the book. It was blank.

"What the hell?" he whispered to himself. Why would Snape leave an empty journal lying around?

Then it dawned on Harry that the feeling he'd connected to Riddle's diary may mean the same thing about Snape's journal. And while Harry didn't want it to be a horcrux for Snape, he did want desperately talk to him. To explain. To apologize. To understand. And most of all, to learn more about the man who had been taken for granted his whole life.

Harry slid to the floor and pulled out a quill from his satchel. He rested it in the ink for a moment before pausing thoughtfully over the first blank page.

With his best handwriting, he scribbled, '_It's Harry_.'

Like Riddle's diary, the words disappeared. Instead of an answer appearing as he expected, almost immediately, the journal seemed to pause for a moment.

It wrote back in a familiar scrawl, '_It is Severus._'

Harry almost dropped his quill. He gulped, unsure of how to continue. His past experience with replying books of any kind had proved to be disastrous. But still, his curiosity drove him to continue.

His scribble-like writing came back full blow as he scratched, '_You're dead, sir._'

It felt right to be respectful to the dead and at least tell them they're dead.

The journal seemed to chuckle, which Harry felt oddly disconcerting. He'd never heard Snape chuckle before. '_It shows an obvious lack of forethought that you would write in this journal, Potter. It's obviously full of Dark Arts. What if your adoring public found out?_'

Obviously, he was baiting Harry but the young man wouldn't be so easily dissuaded now he knew for certainty where Snape's loyalties had lied.

Shivering lightly on the floor, his hand shaking, he replied, '_Well, I'm not too fanatical about my fans, sir. You are dead….yes? I saw Nagini…she bit you. There was a memory you gave me. Or are you different from that Snape?_'

He felt rather proud with his deduction. But Snape wrote back quickly to rattle his faith once again. '_Nagini did bite me. I did give you a memory, showing my part in the war. The Dark Lord killed me to gain power over the Elder Wand. Does that prove I'm the real Severus Snape?_'

The reply confused Harry. He decided to be straightforward. '_Are you dead, sir?_'

After a few moments, the journal-Snape replied. '_I'm not sure. I'm not even sure how you were able to create this journal, Potter._'

Again, the answer only served to confuse poor Harry even more. But it also made him angry. Surely Snape was leading him on. It _was_ his journal. It had the initials of his school nickname on it. He told Snape as much.

'_I never had a journal, Potter. I only kept my Potions textbook, which you were so relieved to have during your sixth year Potion's class. Please, tell me what is going on you insolent twit._'

The spine of the journal gave an angry crackle.

Harry wrote back, '_I wouldn't get angry, sir. The journal might fall apart if you're not careful. Did you feel it crackle? Honestly, I have no idea how you are able to communicate with me. But, I will try and help you. If there's a possibility of saving you, I'll do all I can to repay your kindness._'

He felt rather relieved and at the same time embarrassed to have given such a touching remark to Snape, but he stood by what he had promised.

'_Those are touching words, Potter, but I do not need your sympathy. If you saw me die, obviously I am dead._'

But the words were unsure.

Harry gave a cough from the freezing ground. His arms and legs shook uncontrollably. The corridor was frigid and he swore he could see his breath. The journal shuddered in his lap, sucking the rest of the warmth out of him.

'_You're going to make yourself sick, Potter. I can feel you shivering from wherever I am. Go back into your dormitories._'

His vision swam as he jerkily wrote some words before passing out, shivering still on the cold corridor floor.

'_There's no one to let me in the dormitories_'


	2. Chapter 2

Harry woke in a room he'd never seen before. It was warm and he was covered in a heap of warm, fuzzy blankets and duvets which engulfed his thin, lean body. The sofa where he was placed was in front of the fireplace, as if it had been specifically moved so he would be warmer. A cough from his left caught his attention. He stared up in dark, foreboding eyes.

Snape stared down at him and coughed lightly. He glared at Harry, as if this was all his fault. "Mr. Potter," he whispered venomously, "would you care to explain how I ended up out of this so called journal and into a corridor of Hogwarts where I found you lying, freezing to death whilst clutching said journal?"

The enchanted, green-eyed boy just stared up at him, as if he didn't understand what he was seeing. "Whaa…?" he just murmured.

"Very intelligent response, Mr. Potter," Snape quipped, clearly unhappy about the situation, "but I need more of an answer than that muttering you've been carrying on with for the last few hours."

At this, Harry blushed, trying to push of the duvets and blankets but finding himself too weak to do so. The effort caused the world to shift uncomfortably, sliding back and forth in his blurry vision.

Warm, rough hands pushed his glasses on his face but before they could pull away, Harry caught one of them and held it for closer inspection. Though he had never seen Snape's hands close up before he died, there was no mistake in his mind that these were in fact the same strong hands he'd seen stirring potions for years. His mind was fuzzy and it became very hard to concentrate.

"Sir?" he asked, still holding the hand like a precious flower.

Snape yanked it from his grip as if burned. "I have no idea why you're fondling me, Mr. Potter, but please stop. I have no idea why this is happening and if you don't either, then we have some serious problems to consider. Mainly, the fact that I'm supposed to be dead and obviously am not."

He straightened Harry up on the couch though, and plopped down beside him once he was sitting firmly upright. Harry had no idea if this was for comfort or to make sure he didn't topple over again, thus effectively ending their conversation, if you could call it that.

A wave of sleepiness washed over Harry from the warmth of Snape's body in such close proximity to his own. He'd never thought Snape would be warm. He rested his head against his most hated teacher's shoulder, drifting off into sleep. "I'm glad you're not dead, sir."

The drifting teen missed the look of sorrow passing over Snape's countenance as he put the boy back under the sheets.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry was shivering again. After he'd woken up, groggy and confused, the stupid boy had fallen back in unconsciousness. Snape prodded at him every now and then while feeding the boy from the depleted stores of potions. It worried Snape that there were no new ingredients and no way to exit Hogwarts without being discovered. As far as he knew, the stupid boy had probably kept Snape's loyalties to himself and had let his name rot. Just like James Potter, the scowling man thought to himself.

Asleep, Harry James Potter looked even less like his father. His feathered hair now ruffled against the pillow, he was like a combination of his mother and irritating father, which only served to anger Snape more as he made the mental connection.

As far as Snape could tell, it was summer holidays at Hogwarts. He felt magical checks rush over his quarters every few days, so obviously the security system of Hogwarts had not failed after the war. The systems check didn't even register anyone down in the dungeons. He had no wand and though he looked, there was no sign of a wand on Potter.

"Constant vigilance," he murmured. A wave of anguish passed over his features as he poured another dreamless sleep potion down the boy's throat. Mad-Eye Moody. He had killed Mad-Eye Moody; the crazy old coot that had never trusted him. 'With good reason,' Snape thought bitterly to himself.

After two days down in the dungeons, Snape's stomach grumbled unpleasantly. He was hungry, which was a good sign of being alive. A small comfort, he thought, cleaning up the mess Potter had made. Obviously, there was something in the boy's stomach, he thought vehemently. He felt even more vulnerable cleaning it up by hand. It only reaffirmed the loss of his wand.

On day three, he clutched his stomach, which growled violently. He needed food or he was going to starve to death. He reached into his robes for his wand, only realizing it would be impossible to put a monitoring spell on Potter without one.

"Damnit!" he shouted angrily, tossing over the coffee table and clutching his left forearm with a painful squeeze. It had been nice not having it hurt, but the losses he'd suffered only made it that much worse. The pain was in his mind, not on his arm. The sins he should still be dead for, the ones he'd never be able to repent.

It had occurred to Snape that Potter needed real medical attention. But getting him there would mean giving up the fact he was still alive, which was not in the plan. But either way, he needed food. Closing his eyes and wishing for the best, he snapped his fingers.

A raggedy house elf plopped onto his nice carpet. He shook, sending soot all over the room. He looked warily at Snape but his eyes nearly popped when he looked at the couch where Harry Potter lay.

"You fiend!" he little elf screeched, bounding over to the couch to stand between him and Potter.

Snape rolled his eyes and glared menacingly. "I didn't do that to him, you twittering little creature! I found him like that. Just as I found myself alive! Both were a total surprise, however unhappy of one."

The creature gave a mighty shake of his ears. "Dobby is going to get the Dementors, you bad man. I'm going to get them to give you the _squeeze_ of death! Harry Potter will be avenged!!"

"He's not dead," Snape countered.

Just then, Potter sputtered and woke up with a start, probably from the yelling.

"Dobby?" he asked sleepily. He gave a wracking cough.

On instinct, Snape rushed over to give him the last of the healing potion. He sighed, bracing himself against an instinct he had always known.

"I need your help, Dobby," he whispered angrily. "We need food and I need potions. I don't have my wand anymore. I need someone who won't betray me. Harry knows I've never been loyal to Voldemort. Will you help us?"

Dobby looked at him incredulously, his big eyes filling up with sadness as he looked over at Harry.

Snape ground his teeth. "Please."

Dobby's eyes grew larger. "Mr. Snape never says _please_ to anyone."

And he popped away.


End file.
